Slumber in Apathy
by petes-winona
Summary: In which the notorious tsundere shooting guard stumbles upon an apathetic music junkie who is conveniently diagnosed with depression by the hawk-eyed point guard himself. A string of events soon follows as the three unravel the hard truth behind the thin line that borders friendship and romance.
1. Preface

**Preface**

'How can you,' he starts as he makes a grab for her forearm, 'be so apathetic?'

She looks over her shoulder, her caramel waves falling behind like a heap of beautiful mess. Her eyes are shrouded by her fringe so only her nose and thin lips and a small portion of her left cheek are visible. She eyes the large hand on her. 'i am not.'

Midroima's eyes narrow at her answer, completely unsatisfied with the plainness of it. 'Stop lying. You've done that for far too long.'

She jerks her arm away from his grasp and walks out, but not before responding, 'I haven't lied to anyone. I'm just tired of it all. Now leave me alone so i can sleep...'

She gives him a quick glance over her shoulder. Her fingers are already around the doorknob. '...Midori-kun.'

* * *

**[Hi, everyone! This is my first story here in (and second KnB fic). Yes, this is an OC story involving my two favorite duo in the animanga: MidoTaka! (But not in that context...there's no yaoi here whatsoever.) I hope you'll enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoy writing it! Please rate and review! Thank you! DISCLAIMER: I OWN NEITHER KUROKO NO BASUKE NOR THE CURRENT COVER OF THIS STORY. BOTH CREATIONS ARE RIGHTFULLY OWNED BY THEIR RESPECTIVE OWNERS.]**


	2. Chapter 05

_**[Oh, wow. you guys. I know I've barely made it to 50 views (so far) but 31 views in 24 hours?! guys, that is something. thank you so much! A million thanks to Kyla-chan (she has an acc here i am sure, i forgot its name) for proofreading this.]**_

* * *

_"There's a world outside my front door." - Fall Out Boy _

* * *

**Chapter 0.5**

A sleek midnight black car pulled over in front of the open gates of shutoku high. Different kinds of students flooded into the campus, bringing a certain positive vibe along with them. Girls were giggling and swinging their arms in enthusiasm, some were sticking close to each other - probably absorbing whatever gossip one of them has to offer. Boys were laughing and smiling widely, shoving each other and bickering with one another. Different classes of the social tree all flowed through the iron gates. All in all, everyone was happy for the first day of school - they were looking forward to the things that are yet to come.

Everybody except for one, that is.

A caramel haired girl stared through the heavily tinted windows of the black vehicle. With half-lidded eyes, she observed her new schoolmates as they entered the school, passing by the car with a mixture of amazement and wonder in their eyes. She ever so slightly narrowed her eyes at the watchers. She tried to ward them away with her pointed glare. Of course, it didn't work, thus she drew in a short, sharp breath and exhaled. She pulled the small horizontal lever of the car door and climbed out.

She squinted for a few seconds and placed a hand over her eyes for a moment. She blinked once more and finally has adjusted to the glaring sunlight. She sighed, a bit aggravated as the car speeds away. her green eyes silently implored the driver to take her back home so she can locker herself in her room and just hide away from the world. But she knows that was not remotely possible.

She advanced forward into the school campus. As she casually walked behind a raven haired boy with a big smile and a pair of steel grey eyes, she became one with the flood of students.

Today was obviously not Natushime's day.

This definitely wasn't what she wanted, needed even. Her parents' initial decision was to place her on lockdown at home with a tutor who would stay for three to five hours a day. She was happy with that plan - but probably too happy, thus life had shifted and had other purposes for Natsuhime. In addition to that, her parents were such pushovers and her siblings were so biased and hence a truckload of drama and arguments soon followed...so here she was, regretting life and how time flew by so fast she didn't even have time to register the sequence of the events that have taken place in her life.

She dipped her head low to maintain the veil of inconspicuousness she had successfully draped over her body. The boy in front of her had his hands behind his head and his strides were languid and laid back, but obviously thrilled. A small groan escaped her lips. Surely not everyone was excited for the first day of school...

There has to be someone like her, right?

The mass of students all piled into the large double doors of the school. They were flooding the hallways now, all craning their necks to pinpoint their names on the lists of classes for the new school year. But those who had the right minds drew themselves back, waiting for the right moment to approach. Natushime had always been claustrophobic, so when she saw the ungodly sight of the thick crowds, she veered away and opted to take refuge under the shade of a large sakura tree.

She glanced at her watch, not really sure why was she doing that. The brunette barely batted a lash when it came to the time anyway.

After a few minutes of awkwardly standing under the tree and her patience virtually wearing thin, the thick crowds finally thinned down and Natsuhime tentatively stepped inside. She was careful not to attract too much attention. Attention was bad.

She stood before the large bulletin boards that had pieces of paper plastered together. Each year had four classes. Her fingers trailed down the first list only to find the absence of her name. The second one was just as unsuccessful as the prior one. Her forefinger stopped on a name under the class 1-c list. Her oculars were reduced to mere slits as she pondered on the two words - whom did they belong to?

Midorima Shintaro. She swore she has heard such name before...but where?

She gave a jaded eye-roll as she surveyed under that name for her own. When, yet again, she did not find it, she scanned the next list to - finally - spot hers. Class 1-d. She gave a small sigh and - just - slightly slumped her shoulders in dejection. She did not want to start this day. Yet she also desired to end it quickly. Indecisive, she chastised herself mentally; just literally breeze through it, Natushime.

She was about to turn around to make a leave, to journey on to her classroom. However, she was stopped as her eyes caught sight of a long slender finger wrapped oddly with bandages. Her initial thought was that the guy was injured. Her second thought was the guy was only crazy.

Nonetheless, she could not help herself from staring intently at the finger that was concurrently tracing an imaginary line down the papers like she had done before him - it was obvious that the owner was a guy. The length of the index finger...and its slenderness...the tidiness...they were well suited for the piano keys. They look so beautiful, so ethereal, so effeminate...for a slight moment, she wondered what they might look like under those white wrappings, no doubt smooth.

Her eyes followed the trajectory of his finger down to the back of his hand then to his wrist, his forearm, his elbow, his broad shoulder, his neck, then to his face. He was but a tall, bespectacled boy. A pale boy with a shock of green hair neatly combed to meet his eyebrows. The brows were scrunched together, in deep concentration. He was still finding the class where he belonged. Natsuhime's attention darted back to where his finger lies - class 1-a - and pointed to a name under class 1-c.

"There," she mumbled.

"Oh?" his voice came a bit thick, stiff. Somehow it was nasally, but a pleasant tune to her ears. She liked nasal voices. They sound sophisticated and...nice. Musical.  
She tapped the name.

"Midorima Shintaro, right?"

Natushime may not be the brightest crayon in the box. She might have been dead last since elementary school, but she wasn't downright dumb. She knew how to snap things into perspective. She had common sense; that blob of green was quite blatant and informational. Midorima. Of course. It all makes sense now.

She turned to him, deadpan, bored.

"Midorima, right? Class 1-c."

Midorima glanced through his thick-rimmed spectacles. He towered above her, like all the other people do. He eyed the name she just pointed. Slowly, he said, "yes."'

She nodded. She tried to stifle a yawn as she walked past him. Maybe skipping the afternoon classes would be good for her - she did need a few hours to make up for the lost time her parents had caused last night.


	3. Chapter One

_**Thank you for reading my story so far :)**_

* * *

Chapter One

The first thought that comes into my mind as I am greeted by the bustling grounds of Shutoku is: troublesome. Today is a troublesome day.

The school has been converted into a marketplace. Students are everywhere, announcing with booming voices, passing around fliers, smiling so hyperactively. Booths have been set up and decorated richly with overwhelming hues. I almost would have thought the school really had permanently become a marketplace if it weren't for the large banner hung overhead, glaringly obvious.

Recruitment day. Ugh.

My shoulders rise and fall in annoyance. I do not have the energy to put up with juvenile incompetence right now. All I want is to sleep. Clubs are my least priority. ever.

Unfortunately, it is blatantly impossible to skirt around the bane, unless, of course, if you were suicidal and would rather enter behind the thick, itchy bushes. I am not vying for such plan, although I would have done it if it weren't for the fact that other students might grow suspicious. So the only plan is to journey through the grueling sea of students.

I almost whimper. The notion of having my body pressed up with another catalyzes my stomach to do back flips, writhing in disgust. But I have no other choice.

I gulp and step in.

And so the battle begins.

'Hi! Would you like to join the home economics club?'

'Do you like books? Then join the book club!'

'The drama club would be happy to have you!'

'Join the glee club, please!'

'The dance club needs graceful members! Looks like you fit the criterion perfectly!'

'Please join the swimming club, miss!'

By the time I manage to barely step out of the battlefield, I literally look like I've been chased by a pack of hyenas. I sigh and smoothen out my skirt and readjust my blouse. The grip on my schoolbag tightens and I take a deep, slightly perturbed breath.

My ears are still buzzing with their invitations. They tugged on my sleeve incessantly, gave me their biggest, most accommodating smiles. Their words leave a toll on me and I feel a migraine coming. So I briefly rub my temples. And just when I think I have had enough of their polite harassments and welcoming gestures, I stumble upon the last booth.

Now, the last booth is slightly - okay, not exactly slightly - different from all the other booths. It's barely even a booth. The last 'booth' only consists of a very small table with two buff guys sitting behind it. One of them is sitting with his legs crossed, playing with something whilst chewing his gum. He's blonde and lanky. The other one looks nervous and a tad beefier than the first one and has spiky jet black hair. He's gripping on a small stack of papers too forcibly, looking agitated. Both of them look old enough to be my seniors.

I am within earshot so when he whispers to the blonde, I do not need to strain my ears to hear, much less eavesdrop. 'Coach'll definitely kill us if we can't recruit within an hour, Miyaji.'

The blonde - Miyaji - gives the beefy guy a glare and reassures, 'We'll recruit new members, Otsubo. The others will have definitely gotten at least one by now.'

Their conversation and poorly constructed 'booth' have this depressing ambiance that even I, the apathetic one in my family, am compelled to approach them and, at least, just...talk to them. God knows I don't want to join their club - or any other club at that. Whatever their club is, anyway.

'Uh...' Currently, I am having a hard time forming words in my head. They are still processing, still being sorted out in my disorganized and haphazard mind. 'What club is this...?'

The spiky-haired one – Otsubo – looks up, surprised. He, too, has a hard time mustering a string of coherent words. 'This is, uh, the basketball club?'

I blink twice. Despite myself, I am embarrassed. But I am sure there is no tinge of pink evident on my cheeks. Miyaji is looking at me with one brow lifted. I then nod slowly, mentally flailing myself. I mutter quietly, embarrassedly, 'Oh, right. Shit. Sorry to interrupt. Shit.'

The basketball club! No wonder he looked at me funny! You're such an idiot, Natsuhime!

I start walking away but then - _then_ - the 'Otsubo' dude calls me back.

Without meaning to, I turn around. Impassively, I respond, pointing to myself, 'Me?'

Miyaji rolls his eyes and they return to the small device that once held his attention before I came along. Otsubo beckons me over and I walk back, my strides longer and quicker. I need to end this fast.

'Why don't you join the basketball club?' the built upperclassman offers, looking eager. Beside him, Miyaji retorts, 'you're crazy, right? She's a girl. What can she ever do for us?'

Otsubo shrugs. My eye twitches at his gesture. Somehow, shrugging looks really awkward when he does it. 'She can be our manager.'

Whoa. Say what? Manager? To a bunch of sweaty, disheveled, and certainly perverted boys? Uh, no thank you. I have my own life to manage; I don't need a dozen or so boys to complicate it, thank you very much. And besides, I can barely manage myself how do they expect me to take care of them?

Miyaji scoffs. He gives me a quick once-over and shakes his head. 'She doesn't look like the manager type, Otsubo. And besides, why do we need a manager anyway?'

Thank you, Miyaji. Thank you.

Otsubo retorts, 'Shut up, Miyaji. You just don't like her because she's barely a c-cup.'

I keep quiet; embracing the indirect insult Otsubo has just thrown. Barely c-cup? Really? Boys... And this is why I hate juvenile incompetence, especially coming from pubescent boys. Pathetic. Shallow. Troublesome.

And they are conversing as if I am invisible. Wow, guys. Really impressive for seniors. Talk about role models. hah.

Miyaji shoots back, 'Oh, please, Otsubo. even _I_ have standards.'

'Anyway,' with a shake of his head, Miyaji is talking to me, 'we apologize for the inconvenience, uh...?'

'Oshiro Natsuhime.'

'Right. We're sorry for wasting your time, Oshiro-san.' and that, ladies and gents, is my cue to leave. I nod and start walking away. But for the second time, I am yet again being called back by Otsubo. God, honestly, does the guy ever give up?

The grip on my schoolbag goes rigid, I swivel back and raise an eyebrow. Miyaji groans. 'What now, Otsubo?' he complains, stealing my line.

I walk back to the table. Otsubo suggests, 'Maybe she can help us recruit new players. Coach did say he wants as many players as we can get. And we shouldn't disappoint him. Say, Oshiro-san, do you have your own club now?'

I give him a small shake of my head. He gestures to me with both of his hands, eyes twinkling, 'See, Miyaji? Our numbers would surely develop with Oshiro-san's help!'

Miyaji sighs, defeated by his tenacious partner. He waves a hand dismissively. 'Fine, fine. Do whatever you want as long as Oshiro-san's okay with it.'

I could have argued back that I don't want to help, to waste my energy for something that hardly ever catches my attention. But I figure that would waste my energy. And then another round of Otsubo persuading me would ensue. That would also waste my energy. So to keep my energy loss at a minimum, I agree, saying, 'Sure. I don't actually mind, Miyaji-senpai.'

He nods. 'Knock yourself out, Otsubo.'

Otsubo eagerly hands me a small stack of fliers. 'Just give them to the first guy you see, and you have to really persuade them to join.'

I sigh and place my bag on the table, hugging the papers to my chest. I hope they'll give me a reasonable compensation for this. I rarely take any favors, much less from strangers. I take one last look at them, wondering why I accepted in the first place again, then exhale before stepping into the mass of students once more, hoping that this'll be worth it.

'Please join the basketball club.' I give a boy a flier. He looks at it then I leave.

'Please join the basketball club.' I repeat the cycle to another boy. And to another the boy. and to another boy. Then to another one. I keep repeating the cycle until I've estimated the number of boys to more than ten.

Then, just when I am about to approach the boy east of me, I see him in the middle of the crowd. He is unmistakable, of course, with his verdant hair and uncanny height.

Ah, Midorima Shintaro.

I walk over to him; he is scanning the vicinity, towering over most people. This last flier has to be for him. It has to be. I call out softly, 'Midorima Shintaro.' His name rolls out naturally from my lips.

He looks down, positioning his glasses to his field of vision. I can't help but smile, a small smile that I know doesn't reach my eyes. 'Please join the basketball club.'

Without waiting for his reaction, I walk back to the direction where I've come from. I weave through the crowd again, careful not to let anybody get too close to me. I reemerge, finally, all in one piece, successful. I mosey to the two upperclassmen. Their table right now is surrounded with a bunch of boys, all eager to join the basketball club. And so it seems that I've done my job successfully.

Miyaji hands me my schoolbag. 'Uh, thanks for your help, Oshiro-san.'

I nod, taking the bag in my hands. 'So am I free to go now?'

'Yeah, sure. See ya 'round.'

I pull out my earphones and plug it to my iPod. I tap on the song that has been stuck in my head since last night and click 'play.' I skirt easily around the crowd of high school boys.

'Oh, Oshiro-san!' Otsubo catches me before I could officially leave. 'Thank you so much for your help.'

I nod, impassive. He gives me one last smile and races back to the table to entertain the crowd. I have to get going.

I am the first one to enter the school building and even in solitude - no, especially in solitude - my sense of direction seems worse. I recall to have passed that fire extinguisher thrice now. I've seen that particular restroom twice since I stepped into the building. Does the principal have two offices in the same location? And the janitors, do they have ten storage rooms? Gah. I am now inclined to the fact that I've been walking in circles now.

But no matter how worse my sense of direction is getting by the minute, I keep walking. This is kind of a movie geek's intuition - I've seen people do this in movies before, what were the odds?

Oh, right. Let's not forget the simple fact that movies are nothing but bogus. _Boom_.

Luckily, I've stopped walking circles and finally I am in a different place now, no more fire extinguishers, principal's offices, or multiple storage rooms. But this does not comfort me, of course. Shutoku is a big school, almost everyone can get lost in its old edifices. (Or is it just me?) Well, anyway, I am facing a door with the words _MUSIC ROOM_ plastered neatly on it in clean blue letters.

I glance at every direction and trying to be inconspicuous, I step in, closing the door behind me.

Like any other music room, it's, well, filled with - obviously, what did you expect? - Musical instruments. But it doesn't really look as if it's been used recently; it seems more like a storage room with musical instruments placed haphazardly here and there. It _could_ be a potential storage room if it weren't for the sleek black grand piano sitting in the middle, looking good as new.

I squirm.

It's taunting me. Oh, God. It's tempting me. The piano looks like it's motioning me with a forefinger, inviting me to play, to press the black and white keys. I step closer, virtually giving in. but I have to resist. I must remain inconspicuous. But, uh, maybe just one song would be enough, yes? Yeah, just one song then I'll leave.

Yeah, right. One song, my ass.

When I take a seat on the piano chair, it's like there is this strong magnet that's pulling my fingers, placing them on the keys. And instantaneously I am lost within the music I play.

First I play a soft modern ballad by John Legend. The said singer is accompanying my playing with his soulful voice resonating in my ears, guiding me. The first two rounds, it is he who sings. Then, after the two rounds of playing the song again and again with John Legend's recorded voice, I've turned my iPod off and now I am left in complete solitude with the music and my own voice.

And then...boom. Magic happens.

Music, for me, has become a drug. Every time I hit the piano keys or stroke the bow against the strings, I feel this particular, intoxicating euphoria, pumping in my veins, rejuvenating my heart. Ever since I could remember, music is my solace. It's become my comfort when the world seems to close me off at times (or is it the other way around?).

It would be a massive understatement if I say I love music. Music is my life. I can't live without it. It's become my world, my addiction, my passion. If I had infinity in my hands, I'd spend it all on music. (Sleep is merely a by-product of music, I guess.) Sixteen years of existence in this world and I still haven't grown tired of playing. And I'm sure I never will.

But living off on piano keys and violin strings does have its disadvantages, I must say. Lately, I've been missing out on family nights and skipping dinner, escaping to the music room that is connected to my room. I've withdrawn myself from any form of human interaction since I found out that music was the perfect getaway. It seems like music really has become the perfect getaway that I'm even having trouble coming back to earth. My grades have been dropping since middle school and my social life isn't looking good, either.

But I could care less. my family understands; they're musicians, as well. Friends don't exactly matter, grades included. So what if I'll flunk? It's not like they'll matter when I take a music career after high school. Lots of people compliment me for being poetic, and I've written a song or two before. So songwriting can get me by easily. Who says I can't mix business with pleasure? I can make a living out of something I hold so dearly to my heart.

So the thing with my fingers and the piano keys (or the bow and string) is, I can't ever stop. It's like my fingers move on their own accord. I can't even stop myself. Unless, of course, if someone resorts to force and emphatically yanks my fingers away from the keys.

After a couple of modern ballads, I turn to my classical roots and, without any sort of transition, my fingers press to the familiar notes to my mother's favorite, _Gavotte_, an easy, melodious piece. This was the very first piece my mother taught me, along with nine other pieces that she bothered to bestow upon me for the next generation of musicians in the family. Most of the classical pieces I know are self-taught.

When _Gavotte_ comes to an end, still with no transition, my mind cooperates with my fingers and I am playing a pop rock song that I converted to acoustic, exclusively using the piano. Then I start singing, feeling the song deep in my nerves.

Because we humans cannot just basically live a life without inhaling oxygen for a long period of time, I gasp for air, yearning for a few seconds before I delve back in. But, alas, I underestimated myself and it turns out that I need more than just short breaths. I am panting. Sweat is trickling down my face. Wow, do I really play that...enthusiastically?

'Whoa,' a familiar voice mutters to my right.

I jump and my head whips to where the voice came from and, to my surprise, it is Otsubo...and company. I lower my eyes, asking warily, 'how much did you hear?'

The buff player beams, his face brightening. He ignores my question, which was more like an accusation. 'Oshiro-san plays the piano really well!'

My heart palpitates - I don't know why - and I quickly close the piano and retrieve my things before rushing out of the room, past the intimidatingly tall boys who all have their eyes on me. I keep my head bent low, not wanting to meet them in the eye. Someone - _scratch that_ - ten or so persons know, have witnessed. But before I can make a thorough escape, a flash of green is visible at the corner of my eye.

I turn around and see Midorima Shintaro staring back at me, wide-eyed. Then I turn back and run to the classroom.

* * *

Their captain is quite...exuberant when it comes to that first year. But outside his newfound fixation, he is but a merciless bastard who never quits pestering them to practice, no matter the conditions. For a brief moment, Midorima is reminded of his former captain and his bipolarity when it comes to leadership and a certain, ah, petite blonde coach.

Otsubo calls for a fifteen-minute break and so Midorima retreats back to the benches and cleans his specatacles before downing his half-filled jug of water. He pauses for a moment, straining to hear that familiar musical sound before he lets his taut muscles relax. Today's music is too soft, the notes form a depressing tune. But nonetheless it is optimistic.

Four weeks into school and his ears have finally gotten used to the well-acquainted harmonious tones of the piano, occasionally the violin. Most of the time, the sounds are tender, sweet, almost imperceptible. Sometimes, though, perhaps depending on the musician's mood, the music is rough, depressing, or even too much. but he doesn't care either way. He admires each piece, how perfect each note sounds, and a bit of jealousy arises due to how graceful she presses every key.

Ever since they spied on her three weeks ago on the way to the gym, Shintaro has rarely spotted the girl now. Sometimes, when he passes her classroom with Takao in tow, Natsuhime somehow vanishes. Or she never is there, honestly. He did pick up on a conversation the teachers were having the other day. Their math teacher informed the other instructors that Natsuhime has been skipping class more frequently, her grades dropping as a result.

And so the only solid evidence he has that Natsuhime hasn't dropped school altogether - or worse, she is but a mere phantasm - is during practice time, when she comes out and plays music. (He assumes she doesn't know that people hear her.) But her sessions never last long, though. Once, Midorima tried visiting the music room to catch a glimpse of the phantom pianist moments after practice ended - mind you, practice ended rather early that day - but to no avail. She was gone. Like a ghost.

He is sure, however, that she is not just an apparition, a figment of his imagination. (Exhibit 1: Otsubo is infatuated with the girl and he claims to see her now and then. This spikes Midorima's curiosity even more.)

Natsuhime does not know that she is the reason why Midorima looks forward to practice every day.

Today, however, the gods have finally taken pity on the viridian Kiseki and so fate has something in store for him.

The minute before the break ends, Otsubo is pulled out for an impromptu meeting with coach Nakatani regarding the upcoming inter high. Thus, the usual practice duration is cut short and the players are sent home early.

'Shin-chan, let's go!' Takao calls ecstatically to his friend who has just finished packing all his things.

As some sort of intuition during miraculous days of short practices, Midorima and Takao take the long way out of the school, deliberately passing by the music room. (Usually in Midorima's insistence.)

Music is still streaming from the particular room - another miraculous happenstance today. Fortuitously, the duo are fast approaching the source of tenors.

Beside Midorima, the shorter male is giddy. He silently muses, 'Hime-chan is still at school!'

'Since when,' Midorima begins whilst pushing his glasses higher, 'are you on first name basis with Oshiro?'

'Hime-chan and I are friends!' Takao boasts, well aware of the fact that Midorima has taken a discreet interest in the phantom pianist since three weeks ago. Oh, how he loves teasing his tsundere Shin-chan!

Midorima chooses his words wisely lest he might be rewarded a hefty round of bickers from Takao and a ride home filled with subtle jokes on his notorious profile as a tsundere.

He does not want to go through that - which he is sure. (God knows things like that will only heighten his tsundere behavior even more.) So he says in moderate speed, 'but she's barely noticeable.'

'Oh, I know.' Takao shrugs. He quickly fibs, 'But we talked last week and we've been friends since.'

Midorima does not say anything and considers Takao's words. When and where did the two meet? How, even? She's hardly seen anywhere, after all.

Yet he does not press on.

They are now in front of the door and music is still playing and her voice is still loud and clear and...mellifluous in his ears. He isn't a fan of modern-day music - a pianist himself, after all, thus opting for classical compositions - but he does not disagree with himself that Natsuhime is owning up to the song, claiming it as hers. He is undoubtedly impressed.

The eagle-eyed male beside him nudges his elbow, 'Should we take a peek?'

'A-Are you serious?!' Midorima's voice falters in the beginning. He covers it up by readjusting his glasses.

Takao smirks at that. He shrugs. 'Just a peek. And we'll leave. What's the worst that could happen?'

'Takao, that is the most idiotic idea you've ever had thus far.'

'What? Is Shin-chan chickening out?'

'W-What are you...! Fine! Let's take a peek then!'

He blames the following that occur next all on peer pressure. Oh, Takao.

And because of their part-banter and part-argument, the duo fails to notice the abrupt halt of the music and the sound of the piano being closed for the day. They fail to hear the footsteps approaching the door. They fail to brace themselves for...

'Just what the hell are you two doing?'


	4. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

My eyes are reduced to lines, staring sharply at the duo before me. They're fussing over something like an old married couple; the shorter of the two appears to be winning. The taller one, though, the unorthodoxly verdigris crowned man - his height betrays him of the conventional label 'boy' - looks abashed, a microscopic tinge of pink spreading across the bridge of his nose. As some sort of cancellation to the diminutive blush, he raises his glasses to his line of vision, peering down at me. His eyes pierce into mine.

I raise my eyebrow at them, half-expecting that one of them will answer. 'Well?'

The shorter one, the one with stormy grey eyes that seem...tenacious, surreptitiously wise, explains, or at least tries to, 'W-Well, we heard music playing and we came to see you, Hime-chan! It seems like you haven't gone home yet,' he gestures with his hands shakily; his posture denotes that he is antsy. His grey eyes are searching mine, in some such way he is imploring me with his eyes.

But begging for what? Have I done something for him - to him?

I tilt my head to the side, innocently curious. I ask in a monotone, 'Hime-chan?'

Since when have I been all chummy with someone for them to keep a first name basis with me? Or, better yet, since when have I been all cozy with this guy - practically a stranger? Moreover, I have already been instinctively hostile around him from the moment I opened the door. He seems...lethal. He knows a lot of things. Things I don't know...

Midorima Shintaro looks incredulously at the two of us back and forth. And soon a quiet irascible aura emanates from him, affecting the shrimp and me, more so on the former. I do not look at him, however. Instead, my attention is fixated on the short boy in front of me. He is smiling at me weirdly, the upturned corners of his lips look strained. He stumbles on his words, 'W-We're f-friends, remember, uh...Hime-chan?'

Friends? Hah. Since when? No, more importantly, who is he? I have no recollection of ever having any tangible and non-imaginary human beings under the pretentiously overrated category euphorically labeled 'friends' with an extensively elegant loopy script. I have been too consumed in my own music-driven world with an unsociable ambiance to even think about interacting with another creature of my own race, even my own family.

Hence, the prospect that this particular human being who is - to add insult to injury - of the opposite sex claiming that he, of all people in this world who I all barely give a rat's ass, is my friend is extremely unnerving and, to say the least, preposterously out of this world. In a bad and shameful way. I am colossally offended. Is he mocking me? Is he making fun of my inability to talk to other people blithely? My apathy?

Yet when I see the expression on Midorima Shintaro's face, how, on his forehead, a small crease appears and the frown on his face is blatant and the way he leers at the other boy so threateningly that it sends shivers down my spine impulsively, I have this sudden urge to salvage this boy before me - who I have an inference has been caught red-handed by his friend - from his imminent death.

Midorima almost knows that I am not this boy's friend.

Almost.

I slowly nod; movements cautious and stiff. 'yeah. we are.'

I am lying for this guy's ass.

And a brief flash of relief appears in his eyes. It vanishes as quick as it appeared, and is then replaced by an overwhelming gratitude to me. His surreptitiously wise eyes thank me profusely, his eyes burning into mine, and I have to look away as though assuring him it was no problem at all. But, in actuality, my required daily amount of eye contact with other human beings was shot at me all in one minute by him. And now I'm overwhelmed. I feel lighthearted for once, inside, of course. Outwardly, I keep my callous demeanor.

The boy returns to his smug mien. he grins up at the bespectacled man, who looks as if he is still holding his doubts. 'See, Shin-chan? Hime-chan and I are friends.'

'Shin-chan' grunts and turns away with an almost imperceptible huff. He looks like he's holding himself back from retorting - struggling, at that.

* * *

Ever since he has met Takao, it is only just right now that he is inclined to the discovery - a tad reluctantly though - that the frivolous Takao is, in some way, truthful.

It is, in fact, colossally odd and unexpected that the two contrasting people before him have shared some sort of friendship with the absence of his awareness. To be perfectly honest, Shintaro does feel a sliver of jealousy for the two; the insubstantial feeling is unromantic, of course. However, that clueless Takao does not have anything in common with Oshiro. Midorima would have been a feasible substitute. Similar to her, he likes music and he plays the piano, too.

The laws of the universe are prejudiced, he realizes. He is the one, after all, who has been yearning to catch even a fleeting glimpse of the pianist - not Takao. All his peripheral desires comes tumbling down when Takao mentioned they have been friends since last week. (Not that even he, Midorima Shintaro, is aware of what he really wants, actually.) And for a second, Midroima's fists clench and he has to struggle even more - refraining from retorting is hard enough - from having his knuckles collide with Takao's skull.

There is something to Takao's countenance, however, Midorima deduces under closer inspection. Under his smug facade, he seems...relieved?

But he does not question it, or is about to if Takao didn't stage-whisper to the perpetrator of everything, 'Shin-chan's just a little...jealous, that's all, Hime-chan.'

Midorima's eyes almost pop out from their sockets and his mouth is slightly ajar. He is beside himself right now, embarrassed to no end. It's like Takao has deliberately unraveled his secret facetiously, treating it as if it is something to simply laugh off. (Not that he accepts that it's a secret between him and Takao.)

The honey crowned female angles her head to the side. Skepticism is hinted within her tone, yet subtle, or perhaps even absent, on her face. She asks, 'Jealous?'

Midorima quips, saving his pride and reputation in the process, 'I am in no way jealous, Takao. Now come on, it's getting late,' for extra measures, he raises his spectacles higher, eyes closed haughtily.

At the back of his mind, he thanks fate for the Oshiro girl for being unduly dense.

Takao snorts. 'Oh, please, Shin-chan. It's very obvious.'

But Midorima has started walking away, leaving the hawk-eyed point guard to bid farewell to the still bemused Natushime. He warns Takao lightly, 'We're going to have a long night, Takao.'

Even though Midorima's warning was supposed to scare him, instead, it has done the complete opposite. Takao snickers, muttering 'tsundere' under his breath. He turns to the girl, a coy smile flitting to his lips.

* * *

Not only is he physically ambiguous, he is also socially and emotionally preternatural.

I would never have thought that man, Midorima Shintaro, is a big fat tsundere. Never would. He's a softie, it turns out. I can't believe it. And he's doing a poor job in covering his true self. But I can't blame him, lots of people do, too. But still...Midorima Shintaro is a tsundere! Put that under his interesting facts list.

The boy with those silver eyes - Takao - smiles at me shyly. 'Thanks for the save,' he whispers.

I shrug, all my chivalry now used up. 'Yeah, sure.'

Takao gathers my two hands in his and he grins eagerly, hope filling his eyes. I squirm slightly at his sudden physical contact. I've never had another human being physically touching me consciously for a while now. It feels weird especially that he's of the opposite sex. His eyes seem to gleam. 'I'd do anything for you, anything you want.'

With a shake of my head, I assure him, 'There's really nothing that I want.'

Takao shakes his head this time, withstanding my refusal. 'No, Hime-chan. there's got to be something you like!'

I tell him quietly, 'Not really. So please let me go, Takao-kun. I have to head home.'

'No, Hime-chan, I insist. You literally saved my ass back there.' He's grinning at me from ear to ear. Somewhere to my left, I hear Midorima call Takao over and over again, like a broken, royally pissed (and embarrassed) record.

But I am still firm with my answer. 'But I don't have anything in particular that I want.'

'Come on, Hime-chan! I don't really mind. Do you like ice cream? A new set violin strings?'

I still shake my head, even though the latter proposal seems tempting. 'That's very generous of you, Takao-kun. But I'm afraid I have to decline. You can't just waste your money on somebody you don't know. I'd rather have you save that money for emergency or anything.'

The shackles, also known as his hands, that were bounded around my wrists a minute ago are now gone. His arms fall limp to his side, and then disappear, again, deep in his pockets. I've rejected him but he still gives me a carefree smile. 'Okay, Hime-chan. But I owe you one, alright?'

'You don't have anything to owe. I merely did that out of chivalry. Does anyone still believe in selflessness anymore?' Before he can persuade me into anything as an act of reciprocal kindness, I walk to the direction opposite to the one Midorima has taken. 'Goodbye, Takao-kun.'

Takao sighs behind me. 'Alright, Hime-chan. See ya tomorrow.'

And we start walking home, each to the opposite directions.

* * *

It's a long time before Takao rejoins Midorima. When he does, they start taking the long way out of the school together. Quiet serves as their conversation until Takao muses, 'Man, Shin-chan, she's so white. Like a porcelain doll.'

Internally, Shin-chan agrees with Takao. But he grumbles, 'What did you expect? She's been cooped up in that music room for over a month now.'

* * *

When I get home, the whole house is alight. But I do know full well the celebration is not for me. I mean, who throws a party for me?

By the way, when I mean 'the whole house,' I mean a mansion arguably the size of the white house. I'd be lying if I said I knew my way around my own house. (You got it! My sense of direction is that terrible.) They even had to paste small red arrows leading me the way to my room, the kitchen, the living room, and the front door - leaving all the other recreational rooms uninhabited for the majority of time.

I've never really understood the profound meaning of why my parents needed extra eight bedrooms and extra three bathrooms and a whole lot of other extraneous rooms in the house. Deep inside, however, I have always had this feeling that they're spending millions of cash just to swank, just for the bravado, to flaunt their diamond-encrusted success to other small and large companies alike. Why would they do it, you ask, if they know they're already one of the top wholesome and philanthropic leading companies in Japan? well, you see, aside from being supercilious, arrogant businesspeople who claim that they are, and I quote, 'sustaining a humanitarian and just objective for the better half to heed and fulfill for the sake of the 'unfortunate ones,'' (Ugh. I cringe the way mother says 'the unfortunate ones.') they are also philanthropists in a very subtle and totally ambiguous way. you could say their 'goal' with the help of 'the better half' is to lend a - reluctant and OCD'd - hand to the not-so-better half who are leading abject and poverty-provoked lives by means of constructing an eco-friendly and green promoting and - let us not forget - humanity loving company. And, unequivocally, as you can see, they've succeeded in doing so - which leads them to becoming pigheaded human beings who think they're literally god's gift to mankind.

And they say I'm missing out on the whole fun. Hah. Not even close, sistah.

(Ugh. Hypocrites. I'm related to hypocrites!)

Which brings us to the occasion at hand. today is the fourteenth of May - the annual gathering of all business tycoons and glorious names in show business my parents have rounded up to discuss the yearly projects and the next mega world-changing plan of action they'll all inevitably shit out. But really, they'll have one big ass Gatsby-themed party and the original purpose of the gathering will last, like, about twenty minutes or so - maximum of an hour if my parents really mean business, but that never happens a lot.

Million dollar cars are already lined up in front of the house; the parking area at the back must be already full. I groan as I step out of the car. Midorima and Takao have definitely sidetracked me. Mother's going to kill me if she sees me still in my school uniform.

The car zooms away behind me. I take a sharp, subtle breath before I open the large double doors to a party.

Okay, so I exaggerated on the Gatsby part. My parents are smart and sophisticated enough not to throw Gatsby parties. (Anymore.) But you can totally see that these people do not mean business right now. classical music - a piece I recognize as Beethoven's - is floating overhead, hypnotizing them; butlers are elegantly strolling around, a tray of champagne with them; the guests are all gaiety and some - the celebrities especially - are a bit tipsy now. See - even that Akashi guy who's the CEO of his own company is lounging around, talking to my father animatedly about something, probably the economy of japan ratcheting up yet again. That man always gives me the creeps. Always. I involuntarily shudder.

I use his gabby behavior to my advantage and I run to the exorbitantly designed wooden staircase leading to our private quarters. I am about to put my right foot on the first step when my arm has fingers wrapped tightly around it. long and slender fingers, annoyed ones. I don't need a verbal scolding; her physical touch is intimidating enough.

'Natsuhime,' a velvety voice warns.

I grudgingly turn around and briefly explain to my mother, Mifune, 'School got caught up, Mother. I'll go change in a sec.'

Mother smiles so infinitesimally I even have to squint to see her lips arc upwards. Yet still, her eyes are alert, wary. But I am not fazed by that anymore - almost always my mother is suspicious of everything and everyone, even her own husband. She nods, releasing her steel grip on me. 'Go change, Natsuhime. Your siblings are here and so are your friends.'

As I take my escape, I roll my eyes. Friends. Siblings...oh, Mother, you are so clueless.

My body is pressed to the wooden door, and my fingers are twined around the doorknob. This is practically a routine now: every time I come home, I have to make a trip to my music room before I change from my day attire. The allurement is very overwhelming that I have to close my eyes and take a breather. My hold on the doorknob is impervious, I'm afraid if I let go I'll probably leave contours of my frustrated, music-deprived fingers on the knob.

A voice at the back of my mind reminds me foxily: _She'll be mad; she's going to throw a hissy-fit._

To hell with my mother.

But the breathy, sultry voice that I know isn't mine says again, in the same foxy tone: _And you don't like her mad, do you?_

I bite my lip. Screw her.

The voice urges no more, and I am left in literally complete solitude. I bite my lip. A part of me wants to disobey my mother, wanting to cross the line. That part of me wants to quench my thirst for recklessness and disobedience. But the other part of me wants to genuinely play, to play out of habit, out of passion. I am torn between selfishness and masochism and authentic human interest. I put a hand on the smooth oak wood and sigh. After an eternity of oblivion, I walk over to my wardrobe and pull out an emerald green dress. I stare at the fabric for a few seconds, a certain someone surfacing in my mind.

'Ah,' Mifune says, pleased, 'there she is.'

She raises her glass to my direction, showing me off to her friends. Her glass of champagne is almost empty. I refrain from rolling my eyes while I am descending the flight of stairs. I pass by my mother who is gossiping with her circle of equally egotistical lady friends and she tells me, 'Natsuhime, we've already had dinner. But ask Miki if you're hungry.'

I nod, hoping that I look as if I give a shit. I don't ask Miki for dinner, though. In fact, I've ignored the kitchen and the dinner ordeal altogether. I lost my appetite years ago.

So now, I don't know what the fuck I'm doing here. Currently, the dinner thing sounds appealing...

I am about to go to the kitchen when my older sister by three years calls me, 'Natsuhime.'

Her annoyingly angelic and soft as cotton voice makes me want to hit something. Her whole perfect being is vexatious, to be honest. But I don't tell her that, not to anyone. I turn around on my heel. 'Yes?'

Like Mifune, Yorutenshi is holding a long-stemmed glass of sparkling white champagne. She's smiling at me, her one of a kind, priceless smile that can woo possibly anyone in. Except for me. Her chin is held high, the way it always does when she's talking to someone. She asks me nicely, 'Will you play for us?'

She's wearing a white, chiffon dress that stops a few inches above her knees. Her pin straight black hair is pulled into a sophisticated high ponytail. Her makeup is almost plain-looking, almost colorless, invisible, because everything is concentrated on her eyes. She's doing the hooker eyes again. Well, at least she had time to prepare. I probably look like a hellion compared to her. I _feel_ like a hellion.

'Us?' I ask, tentative.

'Yeah, you know, our friends.' She emphasizes the word ours.

What I am supposed to say is: We don't share any friends because I don't have any friends.

But instead, I say this: 'No. You know how to play.'

'Well, yeah.' Tenshi takes three steps closer to me. And I now know why she was named Yorutenshi. 'But the piano's already here and I can't run upstairs to grab my flute.'

'You know I won't play. Get the flute then.'

She pouts. She knows I am not a sucker for her pleading facial expressions but she tries them anyway. 'Please?'

'I'm busy, Tenshi.'

She raises a perfectly plucked ebony brow. 'Really? You were just standing here when I called you.'

'I was going to have dinner until you came.'

Tenshi rolls her eyes and her good girl facade starts to fade away. It always does when she's with me. I guess I piss her off. She snaps, 'Natsuhime.'

'Fine.' Arguing with someone like her would drain my energy anyway. And besides, I am itching to play, even if lots of people will be watching me do so.

She takes my wrist and leads me to a group of teenagers in our other living room, ranging from my age to hers. Like my sister here, they had time to present themselves. They look so posh and pampered and debonair I am nearly repulsed. But, to be honest, they can't level with Tenshi's elegance even if they were genetically blessed with beautiful physical features. My sister always has this self-confidence that she carries around with her that no one, in my opinion, can ever have or even emulate. (Oftentimes, though, it can lead her to becoming a self-indulgent bitch.)

She calls in her clear, singsong voice, 'Everyone, here she is.'

And thus half a dozen of pairs of juvenile eyes land on me and I'm suddenly self-conscious of myself. I should have taken more time in getting ready, or at least should have combed my hair. I say, 'Hi.'

'She's going to play for us,' Tenshi declares as she ushers me to the piano.

I grumble under my breath to her, 'You don't have to lead me to the piano. I know where it is.'

'Just shut up.' She pinches my cheeks – her way of quieting me – and leaves.

After I am situated on the rectangular leather chair behind our grand piano, I turn to my sister and say, 'What do you want me to play?'

She comes back and jabs me on the ribs, making me sit upright. She usually does that when I am slouching. I probably am right now. She answers my question, 'The one you played for Mom and Dad last night.'

'_All of Me_? Fine.' My self-consciousness is ratcheting up now. Having six pairs of eyes on me when I play was fine initially, but now that I am actually behind the piano which is placed on a circular podium, I've lost my hope of being barely noticeable.

To calm my nerves, I take a deep breath and place my fingers on the strips of black over the lines of white and they move rhythmically to the song I've finally mastered. I close my eyes to forget the environment I am in and I pretend I am back in my room, in front of my own piano, and not in this place where they will know, where I am exposing myself to the wrong people.

After the song is finished, I force myself to stop which is a first.

And all around me, I hear applause.

The feeling of being applauded is mind-boggling, but not addictive. It feels good once in a while to hear people praising, especially when they're praising you. Yet this isn't my thing. Playing for people, for applause, for the limelight, has never been my forte. I don't want to share my talent. I'm afraid that if I do, the magic will dwindle and I won't be playing for love, for passion, but, in lieu, I'll be playing for the attention, for the glory and praise they'll reward me. I hate when music is treated like that, the phony shit they've all made it out to be.

My head pivots to my sister who is still clapping and smiling at me. It's been a long time since I last saw my sister thoroughly happy for me. I beg her to stop with my eyes. She ceases instantly as if on cue and cat walks up to me. 'You did wonderful, Natsuhime!' Her words sound authentic tonight.

I nod and I reach up for her glass of champagne. I empty it in just a sec. 'I'm going to grab dinner.' But to be honest, I don't. I just need an excuse to avoid the people who I know will be bombarding me with compliments and hugs and kisses after my impromptu performance.

I walk down of the podium and am stopped on the way to the kitchen by our oldest sibling, Yuri, with a redheaded dude in tow. 'Ah, the Summer Princess!' he booms.

I roll my eyes this time and say to him irritatingly, 'You're drunk, Yuri.'

'Can't you at least give your brother a hug? I was on a plane for sixteen hours just to see you, you know. I'm kind of disappointed with your calloused greeting.' Yuri grins wolfishly and raises his glass to my line of vision.

Yuri's twenty-one and is in college in NYU. He could have done equally well in Tokyo University, but perhaps he had another calling in the city of dreams. I don't really know much about his ambition in life. And I don't care to delve into detail about it. Like Tenshi, Yuri has long, stygian hair that falls strictly until his shoulders. He ties it into a loose ponytail, leaving his fringe to frame his face. Tonight, he's wearing a long-sleeved maroon button-up crisp shirt and a  
pair of mocha slacks. His trusty pair of black Florsheim is glistening.

'Oh, please. Leave me alone. I need to be somewhere.' Unlike Tenshi, I can be blunt with Yuri. His whole being does not annoy me – simply because he isn't a perfect being – but the way he talks does. But I've set a thin complacence on that fact, he's, after all, my one and only brother.

He unsurprisingly ignores me and gestures a champagne-free hand to the guy he's with. 'You remember Seijuro-kun, right?'

We have this weird sibling bond, the three of us. Even if we're utter opposites and we don't seem to get along really well like we're told to, we have this unspoken agreement not to call each other with honorifics. Because, let's face it, aside from the fact that we barely exchange good mornings in the hallways (Yuri is most of the time an exception), we don't have to sugarcoat the fact that we don't formally respect each other. We have respect for each other, we honestly do. But our respect isn't the same with the kind of respect siblings are supposed to mutualize. So why bother with goddamn honorifics?

But with other people, we have to address them with honorifics. I am, however, an exception to the rule. Or I choose to be, most of the time. I choose the people I respect.

The fellow my brother's with is none other than Akashi Seijuro. Remember that Akashi man I was referring to a while ago? The one who gives me the creeps? Well, this boy before me is his son, obviously. And he gives me the creeps more than his father does. I mean, who has magenta hair and asymmetric eyes? He was born with some...oddball gifts. But his creepiness does not stop there. He's sadistic and cunning – too cunning for his age.

The bottom line is: I do not trust this guy. Too creepy. Too sadistic. Too smart.

(Not that I've witnessed his sadism in action. I've heard rumors about him and one cannot simply sleep well at night after hearing those rumors.)

'Of course I do, Yuri. Now go away.'

Yuri is adamant. That also pisses me off. He shakes his head nearly emphatically. 'Nuh-uh. I won't leave you alone until I see you guys talk and have a relationship then get married and have babies.'

I look at him incredulously, not exactly disconcerted about the babies part. He's just too stupid. Or he's too drunk. 'You're really drunk right now, Yuri. Did you spike your own drink? He has a girlfriend waiting for him somewhere.'

Of course the mundane gossip about Akashi Seijuro seen somewhere around Tokyo with a short blonde girl in tow reaches within earshot now and then. That's virtually history now, palpably stale gossip. I've heard that since middle school. It's quite easy to deduce that that girl is in cahoots with him. I bet they're going to get married next month. It's just a matter of time...

'You do?!' my brother bellows to the boy beside him. And in that moment, I am perpetually ashamed to claim him as my sibling. 'You have a girlfriend?!'

Akashi's kid keeps a stoic demeanor, though. I am thoroughly impressed. If I were in his place, I'd shove that long-stemmed glass into Yuri's throat to shut him up. He shakes his head and the motion appears graceful. He endows a shell shocked Yuri a small, secretive smile. 'I do not have a girlfriend, Yuri-san.'

So Yuri gloats to me, 'See! He doesn't have a girlfriend, Summer Princess!'

My brother is so dense. Clearly Akashi's cryptic smile has another meaning behind it. He's lying.

I announce my leave, deciding that I've interacted with other creatures too much today, 'Play with me when you're sober, Yuri.'

I walk away then. Akashi's and Yuri's voices fade into the scene behind me.


	5. Chapter Three

_**Thank you so so so soooooo much for the reviews and the faves and the favorites you've given my stories. I am beyond pleased and motivated to keep updating!**_

* * *

**Chapter Three**

Contrary to popular belief, for me, school has become some sort of safe haven. A safe haven of misanthropic ecstasy that is competently converted to satiable delirium in the form of a musical escapade. The occasional wanderer is inexorable, though, but after sixty seconds of gawking at me, awe-inspired and completely reassured that there's no music junkie of a ghost caving in the school's ancient, abandoned music room, they take their leave, closing the door behind them conveniently.

In between the piano keys and violin strings, I slumber in tranquil, mollifying quiet. This habitually happens after the morning periods of actual school. I sleep to compensate for my waking hours at the dead of night and when dawn breaks – when I know I've finally run out of time to catch some z's. When I'm done sleeping for the whole afternoon periods, I play some more then leave. It's the first trimester of high school and already I've been flunking all my subjects.

I know the teachers are talking about me in their faculty rooms, thinking up some harmless countermeasures to get me back on track and my peers are questioning my whole existence, period. But, like I said, once you've experienced the real life, you'll soon realize how unimportant chemistry and biology and math are. If such philosophy was the case, then coming to school would have been nonequivalent. But I like it here, in the music room, where I am nearly free.

Today, however, my not so banal routine is surrogated by none other than Otsubo.

It's after the afternoon classes are over when someone knocks on the door. I have this intuition that it isn't the same old wanderers I get. They never knock. This wanderer, howbeit, is knocking and instinctively my heart pounds in my chest. I hope it's not a teacher who has just now started to wonder about my whereabouts.

So I trudge to the door cautiously. My hand is around the doorknob warily. The knocking is incessant and it's becoming annoying. So, sluggishly, I twist the handle and gradually the door opens...

...to reveal none other than Otsubo. He is grinning wickedly down at me, oblivious to my hostility. He greets me wholeheartedly, 'Hello, Natsuhime-chan!'

I narrow my eyes. That honorific. Did Takao already spread the word that we've unofficially become...acquaintances? (Friend is too strong a word, and besides, I wouldn't even call him a friend.)

I blink four times before mustering up an indubitably pathetic reply, 'Hi, Otsubo-senpai.'

Not to mention how nondescriptly passive my words are.

He invites me eagerly, like a happy-go-lucky golden retriever, 'Would you like to see us practice?'

Practice? Practice what? Then it dawns on me. Basketball. He had asked me to recruit him new players a month ago. Right.

I am about to decline, about to tell him that I'd rather play here all in my lonesome than watch sweaty, unsanitary boys pass an orange leather ball to one another. But the way he looks at me – hopeful and cheerful – stops me and, instead, I find myself saying: 'Okay.'

I can basically see his tail wagging elatedly behind him. That kind of happiness, the kind that I have conceived out of addling, reticent endearment, is what stops me from being cynical, the ceasing due to guilt.

I don't quite comprehend why he's come over to invite me to watch them practice. Maybe as a thank you for helping them out?

Nonetheless, I grab my book bag and pull out my earphones and plug them into my iPod as per usual. Together, we head on to the basketball gym. He tries to talk to me but I shut him down every single time.

When we reach the basketball gym, he guides me to the benches where their orange sling bags and schoolbags are haphazardly strewn. Shirts are everywhere, and the smell of men's deodorant and aftershave is acrid. But I refrain from scrunching my nose in revulsion. I take a seat in a small, clean space at the edge of the bench.

Then, suddenly –

'Hime-chan!'

Oh, right. My acquaintance.

I pluck one earphone out and stare at the figure thundering toward me. He stops a few inches in front of me and places his hands on his knees. He grins widely. 'Did you come here to see me practice?'

I nod lethargically, not wanting to disappoint this big ball of effervescence. 'Something like that.'

His stormy grey eyes look more obdurate today. He winks at me. 'Then watch me play, okay?'

'Oh-kay.' then he runs off to the center of the court for practice. Wow.

I've never exactly been aware, much less a fan, of basketball. Yuri is a fan of American basketball but I think American and Japanese basketball are one and the same. I regret not listening to him rant when he was still here in Tokyo. His moronic terminologies about this sport would have been useful today.

True to my word, I watch Takao play. He plays jauntily, like his arms are elastic Jell-O that can stretch to obtain the ball from wherever he is within the perimeters of the court. He plays like a scalawag, in a good way. I like the way he moves, how airily he runs around. It's amazing. He like the wind, fast and furious and waits for no one. His movements are so lithe and fluid.

Midorima Shintaro, howbeit, is on a league all on his own. He's so elegant and neat. And his shots, dude, his shots are absurdly unbelievable. His shots make me question man's logic. It's absolutely ridiculous how he can manage to shoot that ball literally from the other side. He's like secretly superhuman. I have to rub my eyes again and again to confirm if the ball really made it in a bunch of times.

Otsubo calls for a five-minute break and the team is interspersed to different directions, most coming toward the bench where I am sitting. Takao excitedly runs over to me. He questions, 'How good was I, Hime-chan?'

I pluck both earphones and tell him, 'You did great, Takao-kun.'

'You think so?' He takes a seat beside me and wipes his face with a towel.

I nod torpidly, still spiritless. 'Yeah. Amazing.'

He looks funny, in a weird and negative way. He's grinning cheekily but his eyes are disbelieving. He's agnostic of the words that sputter out of my mouth. That offends me, I was being truthful. (I think.)

Basketball looks fun. But I want to go back to the music room _now_.

I am on the verge of telling him that I'm going to cave back in the music room when he states, 'You don't smile a lot, Hime-chan.'

I shrug, looking away casually. 'I never do.'

'Why?'

I shrug again. This time, I'm looking at him. 'It hurts.'

He chuckles, but it's like a one-second lasting chuckle. 'Smiling does not hurt. See.' To prove his point, his lips quirk upwards effortlessly and he's flashing me a palpable, voluminous smile. It drops when he speaks again, 'It only hurts when you've smiled for more than two minutes.'

He encourages me, 'You smile. Let's see what's wrong with your smile.'

See? the last statement is the problem. My smile is fake, inauthentic. It doesn't reach my eyes, even when I'm immersed in music. 'There's nothing wrong with my smile,' I bluff. 'It just hurts.'

Takao rolls his grey eyes. His lips quirk into a lopsided smirk. 'So smile for ten seconds then. I'll time you.'

I shake my head, eyes and face blank. 'No.'

'You know, when you praised me I kind of thought you were being sarcastic.'

'I was sincerely complimenting you.'

He shrugs and his lips contort into a tight, amused line. Seriously, the guy's pragmatically made of rubber - even his lips are elastic. And if that's not the only logic here then I don't know what is. 'Hime-chan. Just smile.'

'It hurts.' _Figuratively and literally._

He taps my nose with his index finger and grins loosely again. Isn't he tired of smiling at a zombie like me?

He promises me, 'I'm going to make you smile, one way or another. I'm going to lift you from your depression.'

I raise my eyebrows. But I am bereft of the time to prod him any further for Otsubo summons them back. 'Be right back, Hime-chan.'

'Wait, Takao-kun,' I peremptorily reel him back. He turns around and hums.

'I'm not depressed,' I tell him.

'You don't know that you are.' He points to his eyes. 'But I do.'

I don't stay for the second half of their practice.

* * *

'What is this?!' Otsubo screeches in dismay. His gale was so loud that even the boys hitting the showers have come back to rescue him still in their towels.

Miyaji asks their captain in mild distress, probably due to Otsubo's sudden outburst, 'What happened, Otsubo?'

With comical tears, the captain of Shutoku's basketball team gestures to the empty space dramatically. 'She's gone!'

Miyaji's eye twitches and his thumb and forefinger fly to the bridge of his nose as he pinches it in evident annoyance. 'Oh my god.'

'She's gone, Miyaji! Without even saying goodbye!'

And thus, Miyaji bellows, 'Don't you dare tell me that we've run out of the showers practically half-naked just to hear you mope! Man the hell up, Otsubo!'

'But, Miyaji, I wanted to ask her out after practice...'

'Shut up or I'll run you over with Kimura's truck...' To the regulars, he says, 'Let's go back.'

Takao cocks his head to the side in wonder. He mumbles as all the others are retreating back, 'Was it something I said?'

* * *

The door slams behind me. I practically throw the bag on the floor and I briskly saunter to the piano. I open it, sink onto the piano chair, and play.

I play whatever comes in mind. It doesn't have to coordinate with my moods. I just...play anything. Obviously I play what I like. Although I love music and all, it's never been a way of expressing myself. I can't exactly say the words I want to say through music. Because in the first place, there really are no words to express. All the best words, ideas, dreams...they've all been taken now. All that's left is apathetic me.

But I do play to keep my mind off...things. Music is alcohol, a momentary elusion from the present.

But what Takao has said a while ago keeps disrupting my concentration so I stop playing eventually and just think about it. It's the first time playing hasn't worked to forget about a problem...if so, then it must have plagued my thoughts tremendously.

Takao doesn't know that. He just met me yesterday. Even _I_ know I'm not depressed. Depression is sadness, right? Dejection and inadequacy, isn't it? I feel happiness when I'm within music, therefore that doesn't make me depressed. I know happiness. I know myself and my capabilities and what I want. Okay...maybe not what I _really_ want, but I know music is the answer to nearly everything.

I'm not suffering from any kind of mental illness. I eat even if I skip a lot but I don't feel unhealthy at all. I'm not skinny, not just all bones and skin. I'm pale, I know I am but that's just because I haven't faced the sun for a little over a year (or two). I'm not suicidal. Not sadistic. A bit masochistic. But that's just me. However, if there is one thing – I don't know if you can call this an illness or something – I am acutely perceptive of having is numbness, apathy to everything but music.

But maybe that's just the downside of being a music junkie. I don't care. I like it.

Yet the way Takao insists that I am depressed, that only he knows I am, is offensive. Confessedly, I am slightly affronted by the depression thing. He isn't my shrink to know that. And I don't even have a real shrink.

The sky is a somewhat indigo color now, almost nearing to inky dark blue. It's literally getting late. I gather my things and exit the school, making sure not to pass by the basketball gym.

_I'm not depressed_, I mentally tell Takao. _Keep your assumptions to yourself._

* * *

The next morning, I have unexpected visitors coming to my classroom. Midorima and Takao. The two have the audacity to literally come in and sit down beside me.

What. The. Hell.

Takao grins and leans forward on my desk, setting his elbows on it. He's sitting in front of me while Midorima's sitting beside me. He says exuberantly, 'Hello, Hime-chan!'

The whole class – mostly composed of the female population at the moment – is looking at me dubiously, probably because of the two confessedly good-looking males ganging up on me and/or I've decided to attend the morning classes today. I ignore them, and so do the two boys.

I scroll through my iPod as I ask offhandedly, 'What do you want?'

'I want to apologize, Hime-chan. For what I said yesterday.'

I'm not listening to him, howbeit. I deliberately choose a rock song and I'm looking outside as though I don't have spears thrown my way. Quietly, I'm even humming. I'm perhaps insulting Takao right now, I really am, but that's the price he pays for being such a conclusion-jumping dickhead yesterday.

Hence, Midorima plugs out the earphones from my ipod and sternly gazes at me. His lashes are gorgeously long. He chastises, 'Pay attention, Oshiro. We've come here just so he can apologize.'

My eyebrows are arched at that.

Takao rephrases his apology, 'I'm really sorry, Hime-chan. I hope you'll have the heart to forgive me.'

I fall silent for a while, thinking about nothing in particular. By the time I went home yesterday, my anger at the grey-eyed boy had already ebbed away. He's not the first person to tell me that, anyway. (I can't stay mad for long, except if I'm mad at my mother, of course, then that's a whole other matter.) But I like giving him the cold shoulder. I like giving almost anyone the cold shoulder, honestly.

When their gazes tense, however, and the heat becomes unbearable, they render me no choice but to respond. I say, looking Takao in the eye so he knows I'm not lying, 'Apology accepted.'

Takao laughs, an honest and carefree chuckle. With his index fingers, he holds the corners of my lips and arches them upward. I don't mind the physical contact. He muses, 'For a second there, I thought our friendship had already evaporated even before it started!'

I blink twice, his fingers still on the ridges of my lips. In a small, agnostic murmur, I utter one of the many common words that aren't on my vocabulary, 'Friendship...?'

* * *

Genuinely curious and remotely thinking that Takao did a totally dick move (It was already lucid that it was Takao's fault. who else was talking to her? Well, not that he was staring at her or anything, his eyes merely caught sight of the two conversing when he was scanning the vicinity...), Midorima asked him, while the latter was driving him home in the rickshaw, 'What did you say to Oshiro?'

Takao did not look back, but he seemed tense, edgy. He shrugged. He figured he could trust Shin-chan with this. 'Told her she was depressed.'

'Uh, what?'

'She was depressed. Just that. And then she...ran off.'

Albeit Midorima is insufficiently knowledgeable in the romantics department experience-wise, he does know one thing from his younger sister: boys should never ever, even when the situation calls for it, insult girls, even if they are 'expressing what they honestly thought of them.' It took him one too many lessons with Michiko to know that_. Girls think they're ugly_, she'd say, _but they also hate being called ugly, especially coming from a guy.  
_  
That is why he was careful around girls. They are walking time bombs.

'Takao,' he began, hitching his glasses higher, 'I think you've already gotten on Oshiro's bad side.'

'Ya think?'

'You should go apologize to her, idiot. She's going to kill you.'

Takao chuckled, looking at him for a brief second before steering ahead. 'I didn't know Shin-chan knows how to give people advice!'

* * *

'Hime-chan!' Takao announces his arrival by calling my name.

I look up from where I am writing a composition and quickly tuck the papers away in my bag. 'Yes?'

'Let's go home now!' He grins intrepidly at me. The guy has the audacity to invite me to such things. I am almost nonplussed. But whatever he wants, I'll just have to follow through. He is, after all, my friend. Starting today.

I nod and Takao extends his hand to help me. I ask him where Midorima is and he answers that the guy was running late to something and he is never late so Takao is free from rickshaw-duty for today. I don't question him about the latter statement.

Maybe keeping a friend can be fun after all. I don't know. Takao makes me feel like a friend is a good thing. But then again, today is just the beginning. Probably tomorrow I'll shut him down like I do to the rest of the world.


	6. Chapter Four

_**AHHH. I apologize for not updating much. I've been busy and all. But I've made it up by posting this. Love you all ~**_

* * *

**Chapter Four**

I run. I hardly ever run unless the situation demands it. I run because there's a ringing in my ears that keeps pestering me, tickling and tingling. It's like a spark - hot, fiery, anxious, and exhilarating. I run because there's music. There's music coming from the music room.

This has never happened before. Nearly no one bothers to play there. It's almost like a storage room if it weren't for my presence and my music.

And so I run pass the students who seem flabbergasted to see my existence after a month-long hiatus, pass the classrooms, through the flooded hallways. My ears have a knack for distinguishing music within a radius of three miles.

It's a classical piece - Humoresque. It's beautiful, I perceive. The tones sound professional, like the player was born to play the piano. Yet unlike most professional pianists, their playing isn't stiff, unrehearsed. It's raw and...apathetic. Like me. It's not oozing out whatever emotion the player has. Sublime but oblivious, that's what the piece is. Harmonized yet nondescript. Apathetic as it may be, the playing is provoking me to conjure a smile, making me ooze out whatever sunshine my system still has. I love it nonetheless.

I'm marginally panting by the time I'm in front of the unopened room. I have to extend a few moments to my impatience so my breathing can revert back to normal again. Running is such a drag.

The jolly vignette has ended and I am slightly disappointed that I missed the culmination. After an eternity of catching my breath ensuing after my running fit, I hastily twist the knob and swing the door open.

The virtuoso cuts to the chase and plays a whole new different arrangement, a lachrymose, melancholic, powerful ballad without the accompaniment of a human voice. My mood's caprice fluctuates in accordance to the piece's temperament. Upon hearing the first notes, in a very unreasonable way, I am on the verge of tears.

I close my eyes. I'm enveloped in the doldrums of the music as I am loitering by the door. I still haven't seen the perpetrator. And I've forgotten why I came bounding to the music room in the first place.

* * *

Midorima has been flagrant for his irrevocable superstitions and interminable obsession for the modern-day daily horoscope program, Oha-asa. Everyone knows that he has a strict cycle to follow on a daily basis based on his horoscope's fluctuations and his own inventive aphorisms; and every habitual activity must be done with the most conscientious of them. This is Midorima's second rule in life.

For instance, his coming to school. Midorima Shintaro abides a disciplinary schedule of arriving to school at exactly seven in the morning sharp. A minute before or after the given time, something is bound to happen to him, most potentially bad luck. It's just the way his kismet works, the price he has to pay for failing to meet his own - and his horoscope's - standards.

So when he came to school two minutes before seven o'clock, his apprehension had reached its peak and it was screaming at him that something would go wrong later on today, or, if he looked at it in a general view, something was going to happen proportionally. And because fate was working against him - for once - today, he was powerless to stop it.

Just as Midorima had made it in the main school building, his eyes automatically flew to his wrist watch. Those green oculars of his widened notably at the time the wretched wristwatch read - 6:58 AM. His heart accelerated for a few moments prior to returning to its usual rhythm, yet it was still tinged with anxiety and worry. Sweat trickled down his nose and it was as if he was frozen in his spot, feet cemented on the ground, staring blankly at the watch as the seconds ticked by.

Soon, to torment Midorima even more, the small hand shifted to the next small mark - 6:59 AM.

A brow of his quivered in indignation - at himself, at fate.

But because this was fate's wretched doing, because he believed that everything happens for a - goddamn - reason, he couldn't do much about it. he was paralyzed by the laws of life, imprisoned by the rule of the universe. moping was not counted, throwing a string of profanities at the sky was most definitely out of the question, and trying to make things right - overlapping the fault - was off the table. Countermeasures, suffice to say, were now far too late to exercise.

Hence, Midorima had nothing to lose now, because, after all, everything was now lost in the hands of just one simple miscalculation. Just for today, though.

After one more minute of pointless contemplation - 7:00 - Midorima shintaro made his way to his classroom, having lost it, all the while taunting bad luck to try him.

En route to his destination, however, Midorima stopped short in front of the door. The medium-sized brown door, the source of all harmonic textures. Her world. Her music.

Somehow, even with her absence, he felt like he was invading her privacy.

Maybe he could just ruin the rest of everything for today now - his daily routine, his supposed schedules, his to-do list, etc. Everything was now lost, anyway. What was there to gain now?

* * *

I have never cried before - honest. The fact may sound far-fetched to you, but I assure you that I've never shed a tear for anything and everything. I've never bawled my eyes out for a lot of things - love, family, death, pain, even music. I never really see the point of having tears run down your face for the inevitable. If it happens, then, well, it happens.

When I was ten, before I learned the true value of music, Mifune's dad had died. It was a devastating affair for literally the whole family. He was, after all, my dad's best friend after his own disowned him for reasons still unknown to anyone but his wife. My mom lost her mother when she had been my age at that time, thereby ensuring a tight father-daughter relationship between the two. Yuri and Tenshi loved him because he was...Grandpa. Our grandpa. He treated all of us well, loved us unconditionally - even me. So when he died of a natural cause, it was the end of the world for a lot of us. Just naturally.

When approximately everyone had cried all around me when his casket descended and my face had been devoid of any sort of expression, much less any sign of a teardrop, my mom was very much worried about me. So a week later, she brought me to a psychiatrist. Needless to say, the shrink did not serve his purpose. He almost would have diagnosed me of having psychosis if it had not been for a single word flying out of my mouth on my seventh visit: 'What?'

And that was the day my family became scared for me. Also, on the very same day, I had found the beautifully enslaving solace that is music.

But then again, that was then and this is now.

The somber, alien - which slightly frustrates me, if you must know because I used to believe that I knew _every_ piece there has to be known - piece is simply tear-jerking, catalyzing the tears that are ready to spill from the corners of my eyes. Somehow, with every key pressed, my emotions are swayed to the music's sweet yet highly oppressive ambiance. It is as if the notes are the strings that are tied to my joints, my very own puppeteer, forcing me to feel these surges of emotions. It is not fair how the virtuoso plays so damn amazingly and how they tyrannically frolic with my emotions unknowingly, however scant they may be. It is unfair how much I am involved in the pieces.

After an eternity of trying to prorogue the debut of my unprecedented tears, the whole song fades away gracefully, leaving in its wake the vestiges of my own inauthentic sadness aroused by its bereft idiosyncrasy. Ignominiously, I look away before the tears - wow, an emotion! - leave my eyes and take on their journey down my cheeks. I am ashamed of how weak I am under the influence of this style of playing.

I pivot back to the pianist. The only words I mutter after a few seconds of staring - blankly, mind you - at...at...him are: 'What the heck?'

Of all the people here in this school at this particular hour of the day, I don't expect him to be here, to manipulate those keys so begrudgingly sumptuously. In fact, he was the least person on my list.

He asks pointedly, 'What are you doing here?'

No fucking way. Add 'excessively brilliant motherfucking piano skills' to Midorima Shintaro's already unparalleled résumé.

But no matter how impressed I am deep inside, I keep a calm, callous demeanor extrinsically. I counter him with a question of my own, 'Are you delusional?'

Maybe because he didn't have anything intrepidly sarcastic to say for my unexpected presence or maybe because he doesn't have enough common sense to know that I've been practically caving in this storage room of an abode, but either way, I am amazed, astonished, aghast at the sight of Midorima Shintaro sitting behind the piano keys. But at the back of my mind, a voice whispers that those fingers of his were born for the piano. So this surprise that has been graced by his alluring performance is a bit predictable.

He hitches his spectacles higher. Light refracts from the lenses. He snaps, 'What do you want, Oshiro?'

But even if he does have the ability to control my emotions with his fingers, he is still a tsundere, a tactless one at that.

I gesture to the black piano. 'I didn't know you play.'

He climbs to his feet and grabs his schoolbag that is sitting beside him. 'There are a lot of things you don't know about me.'

My eyes trail behind as he brusquely walks past me, haughtiness and arrogance surrounding him. I mutter sarcastically, 'I figured as much.'

He stops a meter before me. He swivels around and eyes me for a fleeting moment before he asks, 'Have you been crying, Oshiro?'

'Huh?' My heat skips a beat.

His beautiful bandaged forefinger points to the corner of my right eye. 'You cried.'

Instinctively my own hand flies to the portion of the skin under the corner of my left eye. And sure enough, my fingertips detect the unmistakable feel of dried tears. I quickly quip, 'Just got something stuck in my eye.'

He rolls his eyes. 'Right.'

I cross my arms in front of my chest and probe him, 'So what brought you here to play?'

I don't talk unless for two conditions: one - unless I am initially spoken to, two - unless the situation desperately calls me to. Today I am talking because of the latter condition.

He quips irately, eyes unsure of where to permanently settle without giving the truth away, 'Why? Because this is legally and literally your place?'

'I didn't mean it like that.'

'Give me a break, Oshiro. Don't be such a stuck-up, self-centered rich girl who is drowning in her own naivety to even care about the lives of other people.' He sighs exasperatedly and walks out then.

What the hell, Midorima? Why the fuck is he acting like a fucking diva? What crawled up his ass and died?

* * *

Playing has always calmed him.

When basketball doesn't work, Midorima resorts to the piano as an outlet from everything. Sometimes, depending on the situation, the piano is his only alleviation, his salvation, a sense of reassurance from everything. So of course his fingers twitched upon catching sight of the door; they longed for comfort when everything had come tumbling down. He longs for something to hold on.

Now, that is a hundred percent fine. It is utterly acceptable to play until his fingers bleed. Relieving to take the rage out civilly. Everyone needs something away from everything. But if there is one thing his father has taught him, it is not to degrade women.

On the way to his classroom, Midorima relentlessly reprimands and kicks himself for being a total asshole - something he knows he won't be, but he is now. Obviously partly lashing out on Oshiro was driven by his failure. He uses that as an excuse but then crumples it and throws it away, ashamed of even thinking about it. So now he is just an idiot tsundere who would have been more than ignominious if he engaged further in arguing with a girl. Thank God for common sense.

The girl has played no part in irking him, but he lost it back there. Midorima Shintaro almost loosened his taut reigns on the beast inside almost everyone, even in him. It was indubitably unintentional. And he felt sort of sorry for verbally coming at her radically.

She means no harm. Takao has insisted that Hime-chan is a perfectly paper-tiger in spite of wielding a bewildering personality - or lack thereof. And she is. She appears ineffectual, but she isn't and she literally plays on the down low. She isn't anything lethal, not someone to be grimly feared of, but Oshiro Natushime somehow hides something underneath her apathetic masquerade, which ratchets up the opposite sex's endearment for her. (Beautifully damaged girls are hot on the market now.) Other than that, however, she poses no threat to anyone so investigating on who she really is can be put on hiatus for now.

But even so, even if she is hiding something and leaves no insinuations of what is truly underneath, Midorima need not to have spat at her. Inauthentic innocent curiosity or however, Oshiro did not deserve to be treated badly, especially after she had - somewhat - complimented his style of playing. She was palpably, thoroughly impressed.

'Shin-chan!' Takao's awfully annoying voice chimes in, disrupting his train of thought. Midorima simply sheds a transitory glance his way and merely lets out a grunt like he always does. 

* * *

Instead of getting pissed off by the man's distasteful outburst, I feel sorry for him.

I don't know what motivated me to feel as such and he's Midorima Shintaro and he's not someone to be sympathized but here I am, feeling truly sorry for the guy. If I was like most people, I would have cried for him, empathized with him. But then I'm not so I'm here in the music room sitting where he sat when he pressed down those keys so fucking well it honestly unnerved me.

And I don't even know why I am feeling sorry in the first place. And so the weird sympathy for him washes away and is replaced by a radical grudge for the guy.

I still can't believe that monster basketball player can channel his inner tranquil, gentle alter ego and actually just...play so eloquently. In peace, in diplomatic accuracy; the tenderness seeping through my pores even now. He definitely wasn't who I imagined to do that, to breach into my system and actually trigger my emotions. No one has ever done that in any way. And it actually pisses me off how he can do that so easily, with music no less. He has no right to just...make me cry, to make my lips nearly crack a smile, to piss me off. I'm nonplussed and impassionedly livid at what he just did. Impressed as I may be, he just doesn't deserve my respect. I barely know him, though I find him extremely intriguing appearance-wise, I don't trust him with anything, especially not with my emotions. I don't trust anyone.

I had been closing my eyes when he played, so I didn't see what he looked like, what his face held when music happened. But the way every key was pressed I'm guessing he had some sort of peace in mind. I don't actually care, though, even if he was at peace then. He's still a dick for provoking my emotions.

I sigh. With a shaky finger, I press down a key and close my eyes. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't jealous of his ability. I still have the vestiges of my broken pride, if you must know.

My fingers rhythmically cooperate and I find them winding through a Fall Out Boy song I know so damn well - _What a Catch, Donnie_. I've been in love with that song since I was eleven.

Without meaning to, instinctively, the lyrics fly out of my mouth and I am thrust into my world again, the Midorima thing already thrown way out of my reveries. Playing does help me forget a lot of things. Momentarily.

* * *

The lunch bell rings and I'm still here, finishing up a power ballad by some sixties singer. I don't usually bring lunch, consistently lying to my mother that I'd rather buy food. In actuality, however, I don't eat. Not that I have an eating disorder or anything, I'm both too lazy to drag my ass out of the room and too busy in my own world to worry about human necessities. I've survived with music alone.

For the second time around, however, a knock on my door is heard.

But I am prepared. I've already come up an excuse to Otsubo if he ever invites me to something. I'm avoiding humanity but the guy just doesn't get the hint.

So my strides are confident, I'm not actually wary of who the person is behind the door. If it's Otsubo, then I have an arsenal of excuses to choose from. If it's a teacher, I'll assume to grab some lunch. If it's Takao, well, I haven't really thought of that...

And if it's Midorima Shintaro, then, I don't really know. I'll probably just slap him then close the door on him.

'Hime-chan!' an overly cheery and strongly familiar voice greets me. My fingers are still curled around the knob.

I'm not really sure what to say to him. We've made amends and the depression thing has already faded away. And we're already 'friends,' or getting to there at least. But then...just what the hell is he doing? Nonetheless I reciprocate his greeting unemotionally, 'Hello, Takao-kun.'

He rests a forearm on the doorframe. He grins boyishly. 'Would you like to join us for lunch?'

Takao isn't sunshine, and he is very far from the analogy. But he has this irritatingly beguiling charm that even pulls me along. He's not bad and definitely not good. He's a tease. A frighteningly very good-looking tease. Ugh.

I respond, 'Lunch? Me?'

I already know the definition of his 'we.' Shin-chan and he. It'll be awkwardness all over again. I am tempted to decline.

He chuckles. 'Yes, you, Hime-chan. Who else stays here?'

_Well, your Shin-chan just came here and played eargasmically all the while pulling down the lever of my power box. So, yeah. I _am_ the only one here._ I could have said that to him, but I hold back. Instead, I diplomatically decline by saying: 'I don't have any lunch and I'm busy.'

As the words fly out, I hear myself explain pathetically. Good-bad excuse you got there, Natsuhime.

_'I_ can buy you lunch.'

I shake my head. 'I'm busy.'

Takao tilts his head and looks over my shoulder. He grins back at me. 'You're not. Come on, Hime-chan. Shin-chan's already waiting.'

I stop myself before I can decline once more. Energy loss: arguments. So I nod and walk back over to the piano and grab my bag - not really sure why I'm bringing it - and close the door behind me. The boy grabs my wrist and pulls me behind him. He provides the conversation for the both of us.

Takao leads me to the cafeteria, where most, if not all, of the school's humanity is clogged. Still maintaining an iron grip around my wrist, he weaves us through the crowd. We occasionally stop whenever Takao encounters his acquaintances, most of them upperclassmen. Then we come to a full stop in front of the line of platters of everyday lunch food. Takao asks me what I want but I give him a shrug because I honestly don't know what I really want - food-wise or otherwise. He grabs a tray and takes small portions of food, constantly asking me if I wanted this or that. I nod only twice, most of the time, I shake my head.

After paying for the small amount of food (the boy insisted on paying - that little twat), we reemerge from the crowd and I push open the double doors. Before we left, Takao told me Shin-chan and he have lunch on the rooftop. Sounds good to me.

Takao resumes his conversation about basketball and the NBA and Christmas en route to the rooftop. I nod at the end of his sentences, halfheartedly listening. My attention is elsewhere, swiveled wherever.

The sound of our footfalls ceases when we reach the top of the stairs, a grey door greeting us. Takao grins down at me while I can only stare. He's been so good to me and I've rejected him by being me. He should deserve someone who shows a lot of emotions, an open-minded person who can crack him up without so much of an effort. _I _don't deserve him.

He twists the door open and I blink twice. Is this how sunlight feels again? The annoyingly hot rays that radiate to your skin? The warmth the sun gives off? I've continued the lockdown streak to two months so I am alienated of what daylight feels like, what the outside world could provide that the music room couldn't. Needless to say, it feels magnificent, in a foreign, subtle way. I'm still vying for the music room.

'Shin-chan!' Takao walks off to the side so I've no choice but to follow, lest he might think of me as a crazy person mentally fondling the sun.

'You're late, Takao,' Midorima reminds, more like reprimands, Takao. The latter of which is grinning, seemingly unaffected of Midorima's scolding. He shrugs it off and sits down next to him, setting my tray of food down beside him. My lunch is far too modest to even be considered solid food.

Takao tells him enthusiastically, 'I've brought company.'

'Who did you bring?' Midorima asks, opening his bento. He seems unfazed by Takao's words. Did he expect me to come here? Or does Takao _always_ bring someone to lunch with them?

I am hiding behind the vent, thinking that this is some kind of protection from whatever force Midorima and Takao have combined. Takao then announces, 'You can come out now.'

And so I do.

* * *

He looks up and the moment he does, he mentally slaps himself. He wants to look down back at his food but he is immobilized. Because of all people in this school, in this world for that matter, _she_ has to be the one Takao invited. _She _has to be the one the stupid shrimp is interested in. Of all people, Oshiro Natsuhime's apathy has to be Takao's peak of interest. And he mentally murders Takao for that.

At the back of his mind, however, he knows it isn't Takao's fault that Midorima acted like such an..._asshole_ in front of Natsuhime. Not his fault. Nope.

And it certainly isn't his - Midorima's - fault if Oshiro Natsuhime is standing before him, looking beautiful with the sun behind her. 

* * *

Takao sees a lot of things no one really bothers to see.

He sees the most beautiful things in the simplest angles of the world. He sees the mundane things he finds extraordinary that people never care for anymore - the birds chirping, the infinitesimal rustle of the flowers, the cloud's indolent speed. With his unique eyes, he sees the world at a whole new different perspective, everything undistorted and close up, real and revealed. Everything around him is completely surreal however ordinary they all may be, and he is slightly disappointed that no one _but_ him can notice all this. How can one _not_ see the magnificence of every little thing that has made up this big world? Now, that, in itself, is plain stupid. If such were the case, then their apathy to everything he discreetly sees would have been equivalent to a life born with no eyes, period. With his gift, however, Takao Kazunari feels this certain kind of authoritativeness, an exclusive discretion to watch the world. He _knows_ a lot of things no one does, or bothers to - even Shin-chan is unaware of the things he knows.

Because with those eyes, he sees what is inside people. He sees the truth and the falsity everyone hides. The lies they try painstakingly to hide, the happiness they strain to portray with little effect on him, the emotions embedded within their eyes. Every day, this has become a game to him - what emotions does the world hold in its eyes. Of course, the feelings vary from melancholy to jubilance to pain to contempt to lust; and just about every emotion there is out there Takao perceives with his powerful eyes. He captures the shadows within his line of vision, the past of one's life, the doldrums they all keep. He has fisted the hidden truths and unlocked the secrets. Even without corporeally doing it, he has experienced the happiness, felt the biggest hopes, wanted the deepest desires - all through his eyes.

But with such power, of course, comes the equal vow to seal his discoveries.

Although his friends and family have come to acknowledge, taking it in stride, the ability of his hawk eyes, he has never spoken to anyone vocally what he necessarily sees. Literally, he may see the world around him, but he has never confided anyone in about the world in his view, the findings he wants to share but cannot - _will_ not, for that matter. There is something to the gifts he is only graced that Takao does not share the aftermath of them, a prideful rapaciousness thus comes in result.

And if there is one person his vision cannot grasp, an image that renders him to vaguely identify even a shaky contour of them, it is Oshiro Natsuhime. She simply escapes his sight.

That is why Takao Kazunari strives to unravel the paradox that is Oshiro Natsuhime. 

* * *

I stand there in front of them and stare back.

What. The. Heck.

Both boys are staring at me. Each of them wearing contrasting expressions. Midorima looks constipated, like he wants to be anywhere that isn't the rooftop, or anywhere that doesn't have me. His eyebrows are furrowed together, and I fear he might lose them out of too much furrowing. His lower lip trembles - in anticipation, fear, lividness, I don't know. Thankfully, though, the lenses of his glasses refract light - so I can't see his eyes and what expression they currently convey. Takao, on the other hand, appears smug - as if he's gloating over some contest he's just won. He doesn't show it, obviously, but a diminutive smirk tugs on his lips, begging for illustriousness. Those silver eyes of his are holding unprecedented hostility and I don't know why.

The shorter of the two pats the space beside him with his palm. "You can sit over here, Hime-chan."

I sit cross-legged by him and take my tray of too humble food from him. "Thank you," I seem to say but I can't identify it. I'm too busy trying to be _too much_ me because Shin-chan is around and we're only partitioned by Takao the clueless.

"Seriously, Hime-chan," Takao begins after sipping his orange juice, "you're dangerously thin. Are you properly fed or anything?"

"I _am_ fed," I say while tearing a piece of bread. I am fed, for Pete Wentz's sake. I _am_. It's my decision for not eating anything on our table.

He pinches my arm. "Then why don't you have even a muscle in your body? Sheesh."

I shrug and slowly stuff the reduced pieces of what once was a sliced portion of a whole loaf of bread. I don't respond and I think he sees the silence coming but continues to ramble nonsensically even so. Midorima and I are both keeping quiet, and I think I know why he is.

When Takao has already talked enough for the three of us, he asks, "Just what the heck is wrong with you two? You're awfully quiet."

He each gives us a skeptical glance. "Hime-chan, I understand. But Shin-chan _now, _too? What happened?"

"Nothing," Midorima quickly replies.

"Uh-huh. Right. It's no fun to tease any of you if none of you are in the mood. And I thought today would be different."

* * *

The sky is a magnificent bright orange, casting a serene glow to the world. From the music room's windows, I can see the students leaving the campus after the club activities, though I can still hear the basketball club still at it. Lately they've been practicing more than necessary - oftentimes, I leave earlier than they do now. And that just does not comfort me.

Because you know what? It spikes my curiosity.

My rule of thumb is to never ever heed my curiosity. It can lead to nothing but trouble - because recently, I've just discovered that I am a human magnet to trouble, totally _not_ immune to anything that is exciting and energy wasting. But what the heck - I find my legs carry me there anyway, to the place that I honestly do not want to go to. I want to protest with myself, but I've had nothing to do since lunch but sleep. So I'd be lying if I said I didn't want any action at all. And I've accepted the discovery that I _am_ a human magnet. Oh well.

The sound of male humanity and sports becomes more prominent with every step I take. I can hear Otsubo's familiar voice calling out to a teammate, Takao's laughter, a few other voices I hardly recognize, but I don't hear Shin-chan's. Balls are bounced and passed and shoes make contact and their voices are more audible. I swing open one of the double doors just a crack so I can slip in undetected. I don't want to interrupt their lately stricter training regimen.

I take a seat on a nearby bench and just watch, not at all amazed by the coordination of their minds and bodies but no teamwork. I'm not at all entranced by how they play, how their bodies just seem like solid fluids. Not at all interested at how brilliant they control the ball. I'm unfazed by how Otsubo dunks. Unfazed by how Takao steals and passes. Unperturbed by everything. Not at all.

My whole self is an unfocused blur. My curiosity betrays me and now I am a bare being in an odd, unwelcoming place. I don't know what I'm doing here at this point. I'm not watching anyone play, not even Midorima. I should leave. But I can't. I won't. My body won't let me...and another force is not granting my request to leave.

"Hime-chan?" Ah, yes. It seems that Takao has finally caught me in his sights.

I look up. "Hello, Takao-kun."

"You're here!" He seems surprised, but not shocked. Takao walks over to me. "What are you doing here?"

I shrug. "I had nothing to do."

He sits beside me to which I do not mind. He slowly says, "It's not that simple, you know."

"What's not _that_ simple?"

Takao blinks thrice before he smiles sheepishly. "Nah, it's nothing. Must have slipped out of my mouth."

I nod. "Why are you practicing so late?"

"I could ask the same for you."

I shrug and look around, feigning interest.

"Well, we're practicing for the Inter High which is two weeks from now. Are you going to watch?"

Now I am genuinely looking around, genuinely interested suddenly. I'm looking for a certain someone here. I heard what Takao said, but concurrently, I'm busy sleuthing for him. A few moments of scanning and I finally find him at the east side of the gym, shooting hoops all on his lonesome.

Perhaps Takao has seen where I am staring or probably because I didn't him give an answer, but either way he lets out a chuckle. "Shin-chan always does that."

I look at Takao fleetingly before my eyes retreat back to Midorima's figure. "Do what?"

I can feel him shrug. "Practice all by himself. It's weird, actually, but we accept it. If those shoots don't miss, then we've got no problem with Shin-chan."

I nod. But it sounds wrong, as if he's just a puppet in their schemes of childish victory.

I keep staring at Midorima until some miraculous force compels him to turn to my direction and we lock eyes for a split second before I'm the first to drop my gaze.

He's not just talented on court. He's good at music, too. 

* * *

Mother sighs with indolence as she slouches on her seat. Maids have appeared to collect our half-empty dishes and are scurrying around to clean the table. Either party pays each no mind.

Father sets his empty glass of robust red wine and says, "Natsuhime, will you play us a song?"

As much as I really hate playing for other people, my family especially, as long as I get to tamper with the grand piano at the living room for a song or two, I'm willing to do it. Not happy but I'm eager to do it. The grand piano has rarely been used lately since we're all busy and the house is mainly quiet since the two delinquents I call siblings are MIA and so it's just the three of us-my parents and I-and our form of family nights are me playing the piano as they play poker. When my siblings _are_ here, we do possibly anything in the spirit of Tenshi's and Mother's nagging.

I nod and push my chair back so I can climb to my feet. The scrapes of Father's chair subsequently follow.

"Pick a song with lyrics, Natsuhime," Mother murmurs dreamily as a butler comes to her side to pour wine into her glass. Is that how it's going to be when I get old? Servants at my disposal to pour me wine every night after dinner?

Will I be confined to these large velvet walls until I die?

I try to reduce my pace to a leisure stroll to the living room as not to show my eagerness to my parents. Honestly, my fingers are itching to press. When I do reach the piano, I do not hesitate to sit down in front of it and open the blackness of quintessential euphoria. Father reemerges from upstairs and is holding a stack of cards. He calls out to his wife, "Honey, I've got the cards. Let's get started."

"Coming."

I sigh and I'm sucked into my own little world, a void of the universe I am in now.

When Mother has won two consecutive rounds of poker and I've played my fingers to the point of bleeding, my parents have retired to their room and I'm still wide awake even if it's now eleven-as always. Routinely, I'm supposed to be in my music room trying out a new song I've discovered on the Internet for hours straight until I'll have nailed it and by that time it'll be dawn and I'll have no time to squeeze in for even just an hour of sleep because Mother and I have to go jogging before I go to school.

But tonight, things follow aberrance and so I find myself wandering around the house, absorbing everything foreign and not, not really sure if I'm lost or not. I'm not really sure how this came to be, or how spontaneity found its way into my system right now, but I'm having this once in a lifetime surge of adventure. When I think my legs have carried me somewhere for from my room, I stumble upon a large wooden door elegantly carved with swirly designs, most probably inspired by the Victorian times.

I shrug and swing the door open, drugged by the notion of explorations.

"Boring," I mumble as the image of what is inside the room sinks in: large shelves of books and a couple of long tables each with two large lampshades. To most, the room would have been interesting, but I'm strongly reminded of school and the education I've neglected.

But what the heck.

To my east there is a doorless entry and I decide to start my expeditions there.

"Oh." This is Father's study, where he mostly does his work of transactions and company meetings and signing of contracts. Behind his desk is another shelf filled with books but it isn't as big as the other ones from the conjoined room. Two books and stacks of paper are placed on his desk. A plastic basket is placed at the right corner filled with folded papers.

My fingers lightly trail on the surface of the table while my eyes are on the different kinds of parchments with an assortment of words and topics and signatures on every one of them. However, sooner, my attention is captured by a square-shaped, folded piece of light apple green paper. Intrigued, I pick up the paper and examine it. I flip it over and to my genuine surprise, I see a name written in neat, computerized script.

Guess what?

The name belongs to none other than Midorima Shintaro.


End file.
